


Mellow, Lame, Lukewarm Gray

by The_Florian_Triangle



Category: One Piece
Genre: Coby is fiiine he’s fiiiiiiiiiine, Drabble, Just 1k of soft shit, M/M, Overworking, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24777916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Florian_Triangle/pseuds/The_Florian_Triangle
Summary: Coby is on his billionth SWORD report, and he’s starting to hear shit.
Relationships: Coby/X Drake
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	Mellow, Lame, Lukewarm Gray

**Author's Note:**

> This is stupid and partially soft, but I figure that CobyDrake deserves something a little more than porn. Mostly this was just a character study of Coby, and I’m not sure how it went, but I like how Drake turned out. 
> 
> A chuisle means ‘my pulse’.

Coby’s jaw had been locked in place for nearly three hours, and somehow he’d held off the dull ache until now. His eyes hurt, and his limbs were heavy and weary, but the status reports on the primary SWORD objective were already late. His window was open, and the only sound beyond the scratching of his pen and the waves outside was the soft flapping of the sun-bleached cotton curtains in the wind. Every expense Drake brought on the Navy, down to the last bit of street soba had to be documented. Who even cared about this sort of thing?

Coby had come to the Marines to fight the “bad guys” and put people like Her away. The bad “sort” of pirate, which, in the eyes of the majority of his colleagues, was a slightly redundant phrase. 

As Coby heard the bubbling of magma and the hoarse shouts of Alvida behind his eyes in the form of throbbing tension that only comes from a little more pain than the human mind is meant to take, he thought about the darker tints in the spectrum of purity. Luffy was not pure in that he was selfish, but he wasn’t evil. He was a fairly good man in a terrible time, looking to find more freedom than anyone else, and wasn’t that the purest thing of all? Coby rubbed his eyes, shackled with paperwork and starting to see double as his mind drifted further from statistics and specificities and towards the people in his life. Perhaps freedom was the greatest virtue, and casual cruelty the greatest sin. To assign that spectrum was to exalt his enemy and condemn his leader, but Coby was, in fact, too tired to give a flying shit. The wind ruffled his hair as a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead, breaking at his brow and resuming its path down his cheek. It was achingly chilly outside, but Coby, in lockstep with dotted i’s and crossed t’s, barely noticed. 

Again, his own screaming over the sound of war made his jaw throb and his eyes burn. The paper in front of him swam, the scribbled words blurring. Never trust a pirate, he was told. Trust not the sons of pirates. Or the grandsons. Illegality runs like a strain of corrupted iron ore in the family. 

Was that more naive than believing that a criminal could be a good man? Absolutism was a corruption in itself, flicking the horse-blinds down on the eyes of the good man and giving him tunnel vision. Coby was used to being collateral to that sort of person. 

And what tint of purity was he, anyway? Complicit in the murder of a fairly innocent man? Blindly naive? Indeed, there was no naïveté where he came from, and his history forbade the kind of altruistic ideals that Helmeppo had once clung to. The idea of a loving father, a caring mentor, a room full of smiling friends and warm light— he could not fathom those things, even after experiencing them. 

Coby put himself at a mellow, lame, lukewarm gray, trying to fix a system born broken and evil— indeed, it was evil— and how _distanced_ from his dream he had become! How disillusioned with the bright white lines of uniforms, once seeming so smart and proud, but now seeming like a tool to disguise the body that would die for the whims of a congregation of spoiled children. Could he not retain the innocence that had made him practice a salute, the clicking of heels and the pin-straight back, alone on the deck of Alvida’s ship at night? Why did he try to take on the duty of changing his idols? They were human and imperfect and sullied by their trade in the blood of collateral, this word that dehumanized the countless families destroyed, worlds broken, and lives lost. 

How weak he was still. A hand that was not his own swiped at his eyes, wiping away sea-water that had accumulated there so carelessly. The same hand untied his bandana and took off his glasses, folding them neatly with the prim precision of a soldier, not a gentleman. They were set down on the wood of the desk with a soft click, and Coby’s shoulder twitched in surprise, like he’d just realized that someone had come into the room. 

“You’ve been sitting for eleven hours straight,” came the sonorous bass of a male voice in his ear. Coby’s shoulders sagged and he hunched over his desk, pitiful and pathetic. “And you’re getting twitchy.” 

“I just need to finish th--“

“It’s too late, _a chuisle._ They won't accept them tonight anyway.” The hands on his shoulders were big and rope-rough, firmly smoothing out the countless tension knots in his muscle. Coby’s head fell back, bouncing to a stop against the soft flesh right above the hipbone. The soft scratch of rough, iron-flat uniform wasn’t there, instead replaced by the smooth slide of cured leather. 

The leather-clad leg was resting propped against the crossed slats holding Coby’s chair’s legs together, and the man attached to it was bent nearly double over him, unused to low ceilings. Coby’s eyes opened, staring at the hazy, shifting blob of red hair and tanned skin. He smiled despite the throbbing behind his skull, and how couldn’t he? It was the perfect time for him to return, just as the last vestiges of Coby’s sanity seemed to be slipping over the horizon. 

“I should finish it anyway, so I don’t have to do it in the morning,” he protested anyway, unsure that he wanted to go to sleep. It seemed like time wasted, and the time that he got with this man was so rare. Thumbs dug into his shoulder blades, circling gently. It hurt a little, but as they departed a soft, grateful hum escaped Coby’s mouth. The pen fell against the paper with a muffled clatter, and his eyelids fluttered closed. 

“I think you should come to bed.”

“Alternative option acknowledged.” An indignant whine broke the tranquil, stifling quietude of the room as the hands left his muscles. 

“Just because the old dog expects you to churn out writing like a robot doesn’t mean you have to become one,” his partner chided gently, closing his eyes as tiny, ink-stained fingers ran down the bridge of his nose. 

“Then stop buying street food, you menace.” A soft laugh, and Coby exhaled as he was scooped up, cradled against a broad chest and a familiar mark. His eyes were still blurry with tears and exhaustion, and he nearly cried at the sensation of lips pressed to his hair. He was jittery, and in pain, and stiff, and he wanted to go to bed and snuggle up with Drake and sleep for a few hundred years. 

“Alternative option acknowledged,” hummed the privateer, rolling into bed with Coby still in his arms. He knelt on the bed, springs creaking with protest, and started to untie Coby’s kerchief and unbutton his shirt.

“Careful there,” Coby mumbled, swiping his hand over his eyes. “I’ve a boyfriend, you know.” 

“I’ll make sure to let him know that he’s not doing his job right if this is how you’re turning up.” Coby scoffed, swatting at his hands and staring blearily at the dresser as he was removed of his uniform and tucked gently into bed by the strong, sure hands that had killed men so easily as breathing. 

“Don’t intervene, I’m--“ Drake sighed, catching both of Coby’s hands in his own and staring at him. A blurry, blank pair of eyes greeted him. 

“You won’t be able to fix anything if you work yourself into the grave, Coby.” The man who was not free sighed, biting his lip and shaking his head. 

“But everything I want to achieve will be impossible…” He flinched at his own use of the word, and Drake lay down next to him, pressing his head against the X and kissing his forehead. 

“Just sleep. It’ll be better when you wake up.” Coby sighed, curling into him and wrapping an arm around his neck. 

“I love you, you know. Thank you for rescuing me.” From his job or his thoughts, even he didn’t know.

“Anytime,” Drake murmured, humming soft words to him until his eyes slipped closed. Right as Coby drifted off to sleep, he thought about Drake’s soul, and saw that it was the same shade as his.

  
  



End file.
